


You're Not Alone

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was the natural thing to do, born from a desire to give comfort in whatever way he could.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Alone

The first time it happened, Athos was drunk.

That, in itself, wasn’t an unusual occurrence, nor did it ever fail to instill within Porthos a curious combination of sorrow and anger. Not the kind of red-hot anger that burned in his veins and made his muscles itch for action. No, this was a muted anger, a dull ache in his chest, directed at both Athos for surrendering to the lure of oblivion, and himself for being powerless to prevent it.

All he could do was keep watch over his friend, channel that frustration into staunch, loyal vigilance.

It was nigh on impossible to keep count of the number of times Athos refilled his cup, but the growing collection of empty wine bottles accumulating on the scarred tabletop stood in silent testimony. Porthos glared at them, as if they could be held accountable. It would be easier if there was something – or someone – to blame, something tangible to rage at.

It was Athos’s quiet melancholy that struck hardest at his heart.

The consumption of such a quantity of alcohol would, in anyone else, give rise to high spirits and merriment; with Athos, its effects provoked a distinctly opposite reaction. It drew him further into darkness, created a distance that seemed to discourage any attempt at comfort or consolation.

It made Porthos’s heart ache.

If the most he could do was ensure Athos made it home safely, he would do it gladly and without complaint. The resistance he encountered at first was not unexpected, but Porthos was nothing if not stubborn. Athos had no choice but to surrender and accept the resolute support.

Porthos remained at his side through the dark, grimy streets of Paris, escorting him all the way to his apartments and inside. If the steadiness of Athos’s steps was a surprise, his silence was not. Porthos never asked the source of his inveterate melancholy, was content just to be there whenever he was needed. It hadn’t even been a conscious decision – more an instinct, an impulse to be at his side and ward off the darkness.

Athos didn’t even resist as Porthos stripped him to his smallclothes before allowing him to slump onto the bed. This was usually when Porthos would leave him alone – slipping out quietly when he was sure Athos was settled – until the night he was stopped by a hand on his wrist, fingers clutching just tightly enough to prevent him moving away.

Stunned, Porthos met the eyes staring up at him, incongruously bright and open in the flickering candlelight. Athos rarely allowed his stoic, inscrutable mask to slip, but when he did it was like being granted a look at the troubled yet noble soul that dwelled within.

Something akin to the grasping of icy fingers tightened around Porthos’s heart.

Athos didn’t speak, but Porthos needed no words to understand his silent plea:

_Stay._

While Athos never shied away from human touch, nor did he ever seek it out, and this was a request so unexpected that Porthos could do nothing but stare back, frozen by the unprecedented glimpse of vulnerability. Seconds passed, their passage slow in the still air, and Porthos took too long to respond; Athos’s eyes shuttered once more and his fingers released their grip as he turned away, misconstruing Porthos’s hesitation for rejection.

A man of action, Porthos didn’t pause to think, just stretched out beside Athos on the narrow bed. It was the natural thing to do, born from a desire to give comfort in whatever way he could.

He stuck to the edge, giving Athos all the space he needed, but even so he felt his small start of surprise. Bleary eyes blinked at him and warm fingertips ghosted briefly across his wrist before the eyes drifted shut once more.

Porthos listened as Athos’s breathing gradually evened out into the gentle rhythm of sleep and was still lying beside his friend long after the candle had guttered and died, wishing there was some greater comfort he could offer but glad he had helped in even such a small way.

He left shortly before dawn, letting Athos sleep on to combat the lingering effects of the wine. There was a small flutter of worry in the back of his mind that there would now be an awkwardness between them, that Athos would regret his moment of weakness, but his fears were proved unfounded immediately they met at the garrison for Treville’s morning briefing. Athos was his usual self – so much so that Porthos had to wonder if he remembered at all.

But Athos hadn’t forgotten.

In a quiet moment, just the two of them, Athos said a soft _thank you_ , hushed but heavy with heartfelt emotion. The simple but genuine sincerity of the words left Porthos speechless, unsure just how to express that he needed no thanks, that there had never been a choice to make. It seemed his smile was enough, wordlessly conveyed his feelings for him; the corners of Athos’s eyes crinkled into a smile of his own, warm, grateful, open.

Aramis appeared to hustle them towards a meal and Porthos’s smile grew into a grin as he and Athos shared a look of mutual assent. Porthos clasped Athos’s shoulder in a brief but firm squeeze, then threw his arm around Aramis and instructed him to lead on.

It didn’t happen regularly, but Porthos surprised himself with just how attuned he had become to Athos’s moods. Just a glance from Athos was enough to let him know he was needed, and sometimes even that was unnecessary. Often, he would just sit beside the bed on a stool until Athos was soundly asleep, barely registering just how uncomfortable the hard wood was, but he always knew when Athos would most benefit from the close comfort that now seemed so natural. Either way, Porthos always left well before dawn, affording Athos the privacy in which to rise and dress in his own time and manner.

The first time Porthos woke beside Athos with the morning’s first light streaming through the window was following their return from La Fère.

Despite the distraction of the pain from his wound and the revelation that the man they were harbouring was a slaver, Porthos could tell the impromptu visit had been difficult for Athos to bear. Even after they had successfully tricked Bonnaire into the hands of the Spanish, Athos remained subdued, held captive by memories and the ghosts of the past. D’Artagnan, to his credit, revealed nothing of what had happened after Porthos had departed with Aramis, and Porthos would never pry, even though it pained him to watch Athos suffer alone.

Perhaps, like Aramis, he should have been angry at Athos’s initial reluctance to offer his ancestral home as a place of respite, but he understood that a man’s past was the most difficult place to revisit, and even Aramis’s vexation had waned – fuelled as it had been by fear for Porthos’s life.

Ignoring Aramis’s advice to go home to his bed and rest his shoulder, Porthos followed Athos when he entered another tavern. While still silent and morose, Athos seemed not only resigned to the company, but in some way glad of it. Porthos didn’t once press him to talk, but neither would he watch as Athos attempted to lose himself to the wine, and so when Athos reached for a second bottle, Porthos stayed his hand with a gentle touch.

Slowly, Athos raised his gaze from where Porthos’s hand rested on his forearm to meet his eyes. A brief spark of defiance was quickly extinguished by the strength of Porthos’s determination, and, with a barely discernible nod, Athos picked up his hat instead.

Lying on his side so as to avoid pulling on Aramis’s needlework, Porthos studied Athos’s profile in the pale moonlight and knew that sleep was not going to come easily to him. On impulse, Porthos brushed his knuckles against Athos’s arm, gentle, soothing. Athos tensed, but Porthos left his hand in place until, with a soft sigh, Athos relaxed, accepting the touch and the solace it offered. Porthos moved a little closer, spread his fingers out over Athos’s shoulder, strengthening that connection.

Proving less elusive than Porthos had feared, sleep claimed them both quickly.

Waking to find Athos watching him from mere inches away gave Porthos a start. He instantly began to mumble an apology, but the words trailed away when he realised Athos’s eyes were no longer so haunted; there was a hint of amusement there that had Porthos grinning instead, his spirit suddenly as bright as the sun’s early rays.

His shoulder still stiff, Porthos was grateful for the help Athos offered as he struggled to pull on his doublet. When Athos paused, his palm flat against Porthos’s chest, and met his eyes in silent apology, Porthos dismissed his remorse with a grunt; seeing Athos emerge from beneath that mantle of troubled melancholy was enough. To reinforce the depth of that feeling, to ensure Athos could be in no doubt, Porthos pulled him into a hug, engulfing him in a protective embrace that reaffirmed the vow that bound each of them together, the link that made them inseperable.

Athos offered no resistance.

The first time Athos slept in Porthos’s bed was the night following Porthos’s return from the Court of Miracles.

Porthos was tired, the kind of bone-weary exhaustion that results from suffering a trial arduous not only on the body, but also on the mind. By all rights he should have been asleep as soon as he reached his bed, but he could not vanquish the images still so vivid in his memory; the feel of Charon’s lifeless body beneath his hands, the tempest of conflicting emotions raging in his breast—grief and anger, despair and betrayal.

It was only when he felt Athos lie down beside him that the storm began to subside, leaving in its place the sense of security and belonging that had been missing over the past couple of days.

It was lying there in the dark, with the weight of Athos’s arm across his stomach and the familiar sound of his hushed snores, that Porthos suddenly knew this wasn’t just about helping Athos navigate the fog of wine and memory; it never had been. It was so much more. It was reassurance, confirmation, promise. It was everything that existed between them, everything of which their indestructible bond was formed.

It was home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from David Bowie's 'Rock 'n' Roll Suicide'.


End file.
